An Unhealthy Obsession
by Angel's Fallen Knight
Summary: Oneshot. AU. Boy!Quinn. Rachel Berry's life is turned upside down after the death of her fiance, but what she doesn't realize is that trying to find her fiance's killer, could lead her down a path filled with subterfuge, that she doesn't know who to believe anymore. D/s tones.


I slam my door shut, an irritated grumble leaving my lips. My boss, the ass, had yet again doubled my hours for next week. It seems that my taking time off to celebrate my own wedding is too valuable for him, so a gentle nudge toward the forty-four hour mark is sufficient enough to sate his needs. At times like these I just want to throttle him, but I remember the wedding dress that hangs in my closet at home and I just breathe a little easier.

My fiancé, Derek, was a sweet man whom I had met a few years previously through the law firm I work at. He was going through a pretty nasty divorce with his first wife, and the electricity I felt when I first landed eyes on him was enough to have me hooked. Of course, it was against policy to date clients, but that didn't stop him from asking me on a date the second his divorce proceedings were completed.

Although six years my senior, he was one of the most charming men I had ever met, and a touch of childhood wonder shined in his eyes when he took me out on dates. It was as if I was seeing through the eyes of a child; learning and experiencing new things, and I never wanted the buzz to end.

Speak of the devil.

As I land in a heap at my desk, my cell buzzes violently on the oak table top. His name flashes across my screen, along with the cheeky selfie he had taken on my phone when I wasn't looking.

With a smile, I dart my thumb across the screen and bring the phone to my ear.

"Yes, my dear?"

A languid chuckle echoes on the other side of the phone, "My dear sweet cupcake, how are you?"

"I'm fine, light of my life, and you?"

Another chuckle, "This is just sickly, can we talk like adults, please?"

I can't help but smile at that. It's always a light game between us when we call one another; who can handle the corniness until it's too much to bear? I've won twice in a row and I'm not counting on losing anytime soon.

"Still at work, babe?" I ask, switching my computer on and waiting for the ancient beast to awaken.

"Just leaving now, on the way to the car." He's the PR director for a well known car firm, and the giant seventy-two floor scraper has him clambering to the depths of the earth to retrieve his car. He often complains that at the end of the long day, he doesn't really want to spend almost five minutes in an elevator with company employees he can't stand.

"I hope you packed provisions."

"Got my canned goods and water bottles ready to go."

He says it with such dryness that I can't help but giggle behind my desk. He can be such an idiot at times; it's one of the things I adore about him. "Should I swing by and pick you up?" I hear the faint ding of the elevator through the speaker.

I sigh, how I'd love to go home right now, but alas… "I can't. Roy wants me to work the Shepard case until my eyes bleed."

Silence, then the faint jangle of car keys, "Want me to swing by and kick him in the Johnson for you?"

I snort, then blush; how incredibly unladylike of me. I push back brown hair, then frown when my fringe comes slamming back against my eyes, "I'd love that, but I don't really want to get fired." I sigh softly, "I'll be home later tonight."

"Okay," He doesn't sound like he's really paying attention, but juggling his phone, briefcase and car keys doesn't sound like an easy feat and he never really was good at multi-tasking, "Oh…"

I hear a mumble, a deep voice, and it sends a chill up my spine. It's not a voice I've heard before, and I don't know why, but it irks me. I press the phone harder against my ear, straining to hear the words on the other side of the phone. Something isn't right.

"Derek?"

"One minute." He sounds completely distracted, and I worry; has he dropped his keys while talking to a passing colleague? The seconds tick by and it seems like agonizing minutes. I barely hear anything, until the deep mumbled voice grows louder, annoyed, perturbed.

My heart pounds loudly in my chest, aching my ribs as I breathe heavily. I've never felt this way, and as I open my mouth to try and catch my fiancé's attention once more, I hear a cry.

Loud, pained, agonized, a tear pricks at my eye and I raise from my seat, "Derek?" My chest heaves and I hear loud thuds, the ripping of clothing, the grunts, and my eyes sting. Oh god, no, please.

"Derek!"

It's over in seconds, and I hear the phone clatter to the concrete in a deafening thud. My eyes shut as the crack of the phone sounds, and I collapse against my seat.

"Derek…" I whisper, my hands clutched tightly around my phone, as I listen to the pained gurgling of my fiancé as he slowly slips away from me.

* * *

I bury him a day before my wedding day. In a last moment decision, I order the funeral directors to dress Derek in the suit he had picked for the wedding. It's a gorgeous dark grey suit and silver waistcoat. The last flourish, which I demand I do myself, no matter how deep the pain penetrates me, is to add the white rose to his lapel.

He's cold. So very cold. I love to see him peaceful; I loved to watch him sleep, the gentle flutter of his eyelashes as he dreamt, the ever so slight pout of his lips as he gently snores. The peace gave me pleasure. But now, all it does is pain me. His skin is deathly pale, and no matter how hard I wish to see his eyes once more, I can't bring myself to do it.

So I take myself away, and as his older brother, John, says a few words, I barely hear a word. I just see dark brown eyes, a child like grin and a deep voice telling me he loves me.

I barely cry; too hurt to feel the pain anymore. It had been all over the news, what had happened to Derek; a car jacking gone wrong, a stabbing that resulted in fourteen wounds and the untimely death of a well respected PR director.

Fourteen wounds. They had stabbed him fourteen times, for what, a car? He may have earned thousands a year, but Derek rarely gave a shit about what car he drove. It was a fucking Ford, for Christ sake! Why didn't they take someone else's? Why did they target him? Why did they have to kill him?

I bury my head in my hands, and I feel a strong arm wrap around my shoulders. I know who it is from the cologne, the childhood bliss of hugs from my father. I collapse against him, and sob quietly against his chest. I feel him rock me, slowly, methodically, just as he always had. He wasn't the cuddling type, but I received them, they meant the world.

But now I was numb. I was tired; tired of crying, tired of waking up beside an empty spot in the bed, tired of the pain.

Now I was just angry.

I clutch desperately at my father's jacket, and bite down hard on bottom lip, almost drawing blood, as John and Derek's close friends pick up his casket and slowly remove it from the church.

* * *

The detective that was working Derek's case often kept in contact with me. At first, I didn't really want to listen to what he was saying; why would I want to hear how Derek died when I had a first hand account? But as the weeks drew on, I found myself wondering; perhaps if I helped, I could do a little searching of my own.

So every week, I go see Detective Fabray of the NYPD in his office. He's sitting behind his desk, mug of stale coffee at his side as he flips through pages of paperwork, glancing at his laptop from time to time.

I knock softly as I let myself in, and as he glances up at me, he raises his hand in gesture for me to come in. He doesn't say a word for a while, but I know he wants me to make myself comfortable. I grab a cup of coffee from the coffee maker; it's stale and tastes almost as bad as sewage, but I gulp it down regardless.

My mug is almost empty by the time Detective Fabray, Russell, raises his head from his paperwork and rubs at his eyes. They're bloodshot, and I wonder to myself when the last time he saw a bed was.

"Come for another update, Rach?"

We're on first name terms, although I tend to slip into calling him Detective more than once a meeting. I'm still nervous around the police, even after all this time, I guess the memories of them barricading the entrance to the parking garage at Derek's work still traumatizes me. I even still remember the badge number of the cop that held me back as I screamed my fiancé's name out in horror, hoping to hear a 'I'm okay' in response.

But nothing had come.

"Do you have anything new?" I expect the answer to be no; the case was still fresh according to the police. Two weeks wasn't enough for evidence to be gathered and suspects to be apprehended. It pissed me off to no end; how hard could it be with all the scientific research into DNA?

"Well," He adjusts his tie, which is already unruly against his neck, "We may have a lead on the weapon."

It peaks my interest and I rest my mug on his desk, "Go on."

"It's early days, but from what the coroner has told us-," He stops himself and winces, blonde eyebrows furrowing. He's still trying to hide from me that they had to autopsy Derek, and while I don't appreciate the fact, I still have to come to the realization that it was necessary. "The weapon was a serrated blade, and it's a blade I've seen before."

He begins to shuffle through his paperwork, and it takes him a while, but he eventually pulls out a picture of a grotesque looking weapon. It's a thick blade, around six inches, sharp with threatening teeth.

I swallow back the bile that builds in my throat; was this the weapon that took him away from me? My fingers tremble as I pick up the photo and I feel Detective Fabray eyes on me as I peruse it.

"It isn't much of a lead," I finally say, dropping the photo back to the desk, flipping it over for good measure. I refuse to look at it any longer. "It's just a knife."

"Not just any knife," He leans back in his seat, and it creaks from his weight, "It's a knife that's held in high regard by a certain group within New York."

My eyebrow flicks up before I can even stop it, "Group?"

"The Belluchi family."

The name rings a bell; I faintly remember reading about the Belluchi's in the newspaper. I frown, "Are you telling me-," I cut myself off and shake my head; it's completely preposterous. Why would they target Derek?

"That the mafia may have a hand in your fiance's death? Yes, I am."

* * *

I'm on my laptop as soon as I get back to the apartment. It still has the scent of his cologne as I walk through the doors, and I fight back the tears every time. I still haven't changed the sheets, because they still smell like Derek, nor have I taken away his toothbrush and shaver. Although it hurts, I still need to see his things around the apartment, I still need to be reminded that he was here, that he shared this space with me, that we planned our future together here.

I sit, curled up on the couch, my laptop balanced on my lap as I type in 'Belluchi' into Google. I only wait seconds for over a thousand hits to pop up, and I hit the first thing available, Wikipedia.

The Belluchi family were a prominent criminal figure in New York City, having moved from Sicily to branch out over sixty years previously. They had gone through their fare share of bosses, or Dom's as the mafia called them, through the years; most ending up in prison, others being killed by rival families.

The man in charge at the moment was a man named Frankie, a guy in his thirties that looked almost forty. He was skinny, so skinny it looked like I would snap him in two, but something about him sends a chill up my spine.

His eyes. They hide a hidden malice that terrifies me. He looks dangerous, deadly, and an image of him holding the knife Detective Fabray showed me flashes through my mind.

I slam the laptop lid shut and shudder. I shouldn't be doing this to myself; I shouldn't be traumatizing myself even more than I already am. I leave the laptop on the couch, before disappearing into the kitchen for a glass of Dutch courage. It turns out to be a few bottles of beer, and by the time I've polished off my third, I'm opening the laptop again as Jerry Springer plays on repeat in the background.

I frown at the picture of Frank 'Frankie' Belluchi and keep scrolling. A list of the crimes they've been pinned to fills my screen and I almost gasp at how many there are. I'm tempted to count, but as my vision begins to fuzz, I give up when I get to sixteen.

The crimes range from cold blooded murder to arson to crime rings and even to jury tampering. The crime rings catch my attention though, when I realize that the Belluchi family was heavily into the Import/Export business.

They took American made cars and sold them for a healthy profit overseas, or sold the parts to other car companies looking for good parts for a cheap price and no strings attached.

What sends my heart pounding, however, is the fact that Derek's company has been directly linked to the Belluchi family for more than five years and the court cases were still pending, thanks to the fast work of the Belluchi lawyers.

I finish off another bottle of beer and continue to scroll, finally stopping on apprehended members of the family. There's a long list, and I can hardly be bothered to read through them all, but when I start to recognize a pattern in the cases, I screw my eyes tight in an effort to refocus. Even though the weapon pattern varied, a weapon in particular stood out. A six inch, hunting knife, used predominantly to slit animal's throats for a quick and humane death, had been used in most of the cases.

"Oh, shit…" I whisper, rubbing at my eyes that begin to throb and burn. I'm exhausted, half buzzed, but the thought of sleeping alludes me. I need to research further, I need to make sure that whoever killed Derek goes down for it, without the Belluchi lawyers stepping into the fray.

But how can I possibly do that?

* * *

I'm awoken by my cell vibrating against the couch arm. The throb in my brain is enough to send me cross eyed, but I find the strength to sit up and flounder for my phone.

"Hello?" I mumble, voice caught in my throat, mouth tasting like crap.

"Rachel Berry?"

I don't recognize the voice, so I sit up on the couch and push back my unruly hair, "Who's calling, please?"

"This is a warning. Do _not _get interested in our business."

A nerve twitches in my neck; I feel it, I always feel it when I'm uncomfortable. His voice barely seems real, and from all the murder mystery novels I had read over the years, it seems as if he's using something to mask his real voice. I clear my throat and repeat my question, hoping to finally hear an answer.

"It's just business, Miss Berry. Collateral damage."

I want to scream; I want to find this guy and kill him, but I won't stoop to his level. I know that Derek wouldn't want me on some sort of vendetta, but revenge is something I can't turn away from, "Murdering my fiancé is collateral damage?"

There's silence, and for a moment, I wonder if he's hung up, but there's a shift on the other end of the line, "Just take heed of my warning, Miss Berry."

And he's gone.

* * *

I see Detective Fabray a few days after the phone call from the anonymous caller, or Mr. A as I had now pegged him, and I'm tempted to tell him about the call, but I hold back when he slides a few photos across his desk.

"These guys work for the Belluchi's. They're simple foot soldiers, so they don't know explicit details, but they hear things."

I eye the three men, posing for mug shots; they all look like the guys I see around Brooklyn, just normal looking guys, young, maybe a little too young, already submerged in a life of crime.

"They're double crossing the Belluchi's?"

Fabray scratches at his chin, caked in stubble, "Gathering intel for us in exchange for a lower sentence."

I nod and glance back down at the photos. I eye them, wondering if they know who was ordered to kill Derek, but just like Detective Fabray said, they're simple foot soldiers, they wouldn't know too much.

"The order came pretty high up, that's all we know so far," He sounds as if he's close to giving up already, only a few weeks after Derek's death, but I don't say anything, "But we're still digging. We will find out who did this, Rach."

Not before I do.

I don't mention the call.

* * *

I make a habit of always keeping my cell around me at all times and most of the time, it's just calls from marketing companies, but I can't help but catch a frog in my throat when I answer them. It could be him, Mr. A; would he able to tell that I was still digging into his 'business'?

How did he know in the first place? The paranoia begins to burrow into my head and take up residence. If I'm not triple checking my doors to make sure they're locked, I'm peering out of the windows of my third floor apartment, looking for suspicious looking cars that happen to drive past or stay parked for too long.

At times, I wonder if I'm imagining it; perhaps Mr. A assumed I was digging because I was Derek's fiancée? No, his tone, the way he said it; he knew I was digging. But how?

I'm in bed, but I can't sleep, I haven't been able to since Derek left. His side of the bed still remains cold, unfeeling, and the slight musk of his cologne is fading away with each passing day. I squeeze my eyes shut, urging my body to just relax and pass out.

I'm drifting, between a haze of quiet unconsciousness and alertness. I will myself, beg my mind just to shut up for two seconds so I can sleep through the night, but the phone rings.

My cell buzzes angrily on my bedside table, and I glance at the clock; almost one thirty in the morning. It wouldn't be a marketing company. I lean over, glancing at the caller ID, hoping that it's my father checking up on me or perhaps a friend, but it's a blocked number and I just know.

"H-Hello?" I choke out, after finally being able to clear my throat without wanting to throw up.

"Miss Berry?" It's him, Mr. A.

I know I won't get a reply, or he'll gloss over the question, but I ask once more, "Who is this?"

"I thought I told you not to get involved in our business?"

"How am I getting involved?"

"The police? You've been meeting with Detective Russell Fabray haven't you? You really shouldn't be talking about our business, it could have consequences you don't really find beneficial to you."

I sit up in bed, and suddenly terrified of the dark, I switch on the bedside lamp. The room aluminates and it takes a second for my eyes to focus. He could be in the room, he could be watching me right now. I rub at my eyes before opening them, but I'm alone.

"Will you kill me too?"

There's no reply, and I hesitantly climb from my bed and tiptoe toward the bedroom window.

"I wouldn't want to."

"Why?" I pull down a blind, ever so slightly, as to not gain attention, and peer out of the window. The street is filled with parked cars, my neighbours all comfortable and safe in their beds while I get harassed by late night calls.

"You're a woman."

My eyes pin a dark mustang just up the street and I squint, hoping to catch a glimpse of anyone inside.

"An astute observation."

He actually chuckles, soft but rough, and my toes curl, "You want me to leave it alone? You want me to forget that you killed Derek."

"As I said, Derek was collateral damage. He knew what he was getting himself into, and the family took it upon himself to deal with the problem at hand."

I pull up the blinds, almost certain he's in the car. The swell of shadows destroy any chance of reading a license plate, but when the car door opens, my hand freezes on the cord, urging myself to stare him down and not pull the blinds back down and cower away.

I barely see him, mixed amongst shadow and dull streetlight, but I see his hand to his ear. He's too far away to notice anything distinct about him, but I continue to stare, backlit by my lamp; I want him to know I'm looking at him. I want him to fear me as much as I fear him.

"He would have never made a deal with the mafia. You're bluffing."

He leans against the car, his free hand tapping on the roof of his car, "No, not directly, but the company he worked for has some major deals with us. He was PR director, he had talks with us." A pause, and I see him begin to circle around the car, leaning against the side that's completely open to the street, "Or did he not tell you that?"

His head turns toward my window and I try to make out a feature, but I see nothing. This guy can be out in the open but completely hidden; he's a pro, he knows how to hide, he can't be a simple foot soldier. This guy has training behind him.

"I'm not leaving this alone. You don't scare me."

He drops his chin to his chest, and I hear a mumble, "You should be."

The line goes dead, and I keep my eyes on him until I can no longer see his car as it turns at the end of the street.

* * *

I can't handle it anymore; I have to tell Detective Fabray about the calls. He agrees to meet me at a Starbucks just off of Broadway. I enjoy being amongst a big crowd; it makes me feel safe, like I won't be snatched off the street with no one to see or call the police.

I'm sipping on a cappuccino, not really tasting it as I look around. Lots of chatter, between friends and couples, and I feel slightly out of the loop, sat by myself outside in the only spare table. Someone comes up to me, and for a second, I panic, but she only asks if she can take the spare seat. I decline, I say I'm waiting for someone and she just shrugs a shoulder and walks away, taking to sitting on one of her friends lap as she sips on her coffee.

Detective Fabray is nowhere to be seen, and I glance at my watch, wondering what's taking him so long. New York traffic is notoriously atrocious, but we agreed to meet almost forty minutes ago. Maybe he had to finish some paperwork before he could leave? Maybe he's chasing a lead?

I'm on my second coffee by the time Russell turns up, forehead sweaty, tie askew as per usual, and a jelly stain on his stark white shirt. Cops.

He apologizes, then says he'll be back in a few minutes after he's grabbed a coffee. He joins me minutes later, glugging down the steaming hot brew, and it doesn't even phase him.

"Sorry, paperwork, you know." He adjusts himself on his seat, it looks almost tiny compared to his big frame, it almost reminds me of the little kindergarten chairs.

"It's fine."

"So what did you want to talk about?" He asks, coffee cup already in his mouth, going for round two.

"I've uhm," I fiddle with my mug, thumb skimming the rim, "I've been getting calls from a member of the Belluchi family."

This stops him, and he leans forward, eyes wide, "Did I just hear you right? The Belluchi's? How long have you been getting these calls?"

"Its only been two calls. One a few days ago, the other was last night. It's the same guy."

"Did he give you a name?"

"No, and he masks his voice with one of those voice control things, so I can't really point out a voice."

"Shit," He leans back in his seat, dejected, and sighs, "Okay…so these calls, what has he been saying? Anything can help here, Rach, it may give us a clue as to who he is."

I shrug half heartedly, "Just stuff about Derek, about how I shouldn't get involved in 'family business'." I hesitate before I add, "He turned up on my street last night, but I couldn't see him. All I saw was a mustang, a dark color."

He nods, "The Belluchi's use mustangs, usually maroon." Then he rubs his palm across his face, taking some time to pinch the bridge of his nose, "So he turned up. He knows where you live." He looks at me, "Rach, this is dangerous, we should put you into protective custody. If you keep digging, which I strongly advise against, they won't hesitate to kill you."

My fingertips tap slowly against my mug, slow, methodical, "Derek…" I can barely look at Russell as I continue, "Was he involved with the Belluchi's?"

"Rach…" He shakes his head, "It's an ongoing investigation, I can't really divulge information like that."

"We were getting married," I glare at him, close to tears, "I have the right to know as his fiancée."

He stares at me for the longest time, wondering if he should tell me or not, although I'm sure I already know the answer. Mr. A had divulged enough information for me to realize that perhaps Derek had been involved in shady business with the mafia, but I didn't really want to admit that the man I loved was hiding things from me.

"Let me get another coffee, then we'll go somewhere a little quieter."

* * *

We end up in my apartment, but even then, I can tell Detective Fabray is on edge. He paces the hard wood floor, glancing out of the window as he passes it, then taking a sip of his lukewarm coffee.

I stand rooted to the spot, fiddling with my keys, wondering if I should start first, but before I can open my mouth, Russell jumps straight in.

"I really shouldn't be telling you this, Rach…" He pauses and stares at me, and I zip my thumb and finger over my lips, "Seriously, you can't breathe a word of this. I could lose my job."

"I won't say a word." I mean it.

He nods, then collapses into a nearby arm chair. He looks haggard and double his age all of a sudden.

"We have a mole in the Belluchi family ranks. He's one of our own and so far, they suspect nothing."

"Why is he spying on them?"

Russell shrugs, "Regular shit; murder, blackmail, drugs." Then he sighs, "But this mole, we meet with him every month and I'm going to ask him to look into Derek's death." He sees my eyes light up and he raises his hands, "Look, this isn't a cure all, okay? He may not learn anything, he can't delve in too deep."

I'm still enlightened; finally, perhaps I could learn at least some answers into my fiance's death. Derek's death could be avenged and I wouldn't rest until I saw every one of the Belluchi's go to jail for it.

"Any help would be great right now. When are you meeting this mole?"

"Meeting point in an abandoned factory down by the Hudson."

I nod, "Could I-," Am I really going to ask this? "Could I meet him?"

Russell shakes his head, but I put my foot down. This man could be the one that sends the Belluchi's down. This man is the one that puts his life on the line day in and day out to find out information that could destroy the inner circle of the Belluchi family.

I would have to meet him.

"It's dangerous. It's hard enough meeting him without dragging a civilian along for the ride."

I ponder for a moment and pull back the hair that had scattered itself across my eyes. It would be dangerous. I could be killed being dragged into an undercover meeting with a mole, but what did I have to lose?

"Then let me go on my own. No one would suspect me."

Russell just stares at me, then bellows out loud, "Fuck no!"

* * *

I got my way eventually; having the keys to my front door and not allowing him to leave until he agreed was detrimental in my success. He wasn't happy in the slightest and at one point I thought he was going to un-holster my gun and hold it to my head, but that wasn't really becoming of an officer of the law.

He left with a frown, and ordered me to come to the station two days later to be wired. I understood the need, after all, I wasn't trained, and I properly wouldn't be able to retain all the information the mole told me. It was also to keep tabs on me. Although Detective Fabray wouldn't be there, he would be three blocks away in an unmarked van to keep tabs on me.

He didn't tell his superiors that I would be meeting with the mole, and I kept my silence. I didn't exactly want my own ally in my mission to persecute Derek's murderers to be stripped of his badge and title.

We meet in the gallows of the precinct, hidden down long halls and behind a locked door. The technician, a middle aged woman with early greying hair, orders me to unbutton my blouse and for a second I bluster, but I unbutton it after telling Russell to turn his back.

She sticks the tiny wires to my torso and cleavage, incredibly well hidden amongst the lace of my bra. A small remote sound recorder settled along the slight swell of my stomach. I wonder if it'd hide well, but as I button my blouse back up, I cannot see a sign of the tiny device.

"There's no need to turn it on, but try not to tamper with the wires, alright?" I nod at her sagely words and adjust my blouse before turning to Russell. He looks nervous, and looks as if he's lose to having an aneurism, but I just lift my chin and he seems to relax somewhat.

"Just be careful," He mumbles, staring at me with warm eyes.

I just nod.

I barely hear the monotone hum of passing boats as I wait in the abandoned factory. We're along the strip of dock yard that's referred to as 'Crack Alley' by the precinct; prostitutes, addicts and dealers haunt the factories, selling drugs and themselves for easy cash.

Telltale signs of past life cake the walls; graffiti art and unreadable words. It adds a sort of grunge to the location that just sends a shiver up my spine; no wonder the mole chose this as his meeting location. No one in their right mind would want to come here.

Although I don't hear Detective Fabray voice, I know he's nearby, listening in; a calming muse in my time of need. My eyes dart, my chest heaves, I calm myself, insisting upon myself to hold the nerve I practiced so perfectly at work.

"Hey," His voice, low and quiet echoes throughout the factory and my whole body snaps toward the sound.

Dressed in a modest white button down and black dress pants, a man no older than thirty heads toward me. Light hair frames his eyes and it worries me that I cannot see them. Is this the mole? They had told me his hair color, and what he would be wearing, but what if this was a member of the Belluchi's that knew of the mole plot?

I panic, until he raises his eyes and frowns at me, "Who the hell are you?" Hazel eyes shine at me, and although the stare should unnerve me, it settles me somewhat.

"Rachel Berry. Detective Fabray sent me to meet with you."

His eyes scan me, "You're not a cop." He seems to bluster, "Is he insane? He can't send a civilian out here!" He calms himself almost instantly and drags his hands over his face, "Why are you here? There's got to be a reason."

"How about you tell me your name first, then I'll tell you why I'm here."

His head rears back and I know I've surprised him. He wasn't suspecting that I actually had a backbone, and I fight back the smirk that aches to stretch across my lips.

"Quentin." He pauses, then lowers his voice, "Quentin Fabray."

As suddenly as he utters his last name, I'm slapped in the face by the resemblance. He has the exact same eyes as Russell, the exact same nose, the only difference is that Quentin's lips are thinner.

"You're Detective Fabray's son?"

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, a hand is slapped across my face, and I feel his breath upon my face. He stands close, staring me down and he shakes his head. Anyone could have been listening, I'd have to be quiet. I nod and take his hand, surprisingly soft in mine, and pull it away from my mouth.

"Sorry."

He nods, and for a second, he hesitates, still close to me. He senses my discomfort however, and backs off.

It takes a second for me to get back my breath, but when I do, I ask, "The Belluchi's. They killed my fiancé." His eyes narrow, "I need to know who ordered it and who did it."

"That's pretty high up. It'd be hard to find out." He glances over his shoulders, just to make sure no one is snooping, "I'm only a Capo."

I have no idea what that means and he knows it.

"Higher than a foot solider. I had to break my back to get that far, I don't really want to jeopardise my investigation."

It's weird, seeing him as an officer of the law when he's dressed as one of the Belluchi goons. He's not a member of the mafia, he's only posing, he's on my side.

"Anything would help. A name would be a leap. Anything you hear whispered; I'm sure people talk."

He sighs softly, "You're asking a lot. I've been on this case for almost two years, I can't ruin it now. I'm sorry." He pulls out a folder from behind his back, folded to fit between the waistband of his pants and his back. "Give this to Detective Fabray, it'll help with my investigation."

He turns to leave, and as I watch him walk away, my heart shatters and I plead, "_Please_."

Quentin freezes, and I see his shoulders rise and fall before he turns to look at me. Hands on his hips, he watches me, shattered and at a loss. He shakes his head, obviously fighting with himself and says, "Meet me here in a week, same time. If you're late, I'm not waiting."

He's gone before I can even say thank you.

* * *

Three days after meeting with Quentin, I come home after working out at the gym. I'd been stressed since my undercover meeting, and I had taken it out on Russell for not telling me that his son was the mole. We hadn't spoken in days, and the stress of both work and the impending meeting with Quentin had me rushing to the gym to regain my sanity.

Three hours later, still wet from the after workout shower, I kick my apartment door shut and lock it behind me. As soon as the keys turn in the lock, my cell rings and I fumble to reach it.

My fingers wrap around the phone in my gym bag just as the ringing ceases and I curse, throwing it on the kitchen counter. I reach into the fridge for a bottle of water, and after a few gulps to quench my aching thirst, my cell buzzes again.

This time I catch it in time, and note the unknown number before bringing it to my ear, "Hello?" I ask, voice shaken.

"Miss Berry."

It's Mr. A and my jaw clenches. I won't hang up. One day I will find out who he is and I'll smirk as he is sent down in court.

"Mr. A."

I hear a chuckle through the voice synthesiser and it sounds like the soundtrack to a horror movie; a murder stalking his victim, laughing manically.

"Is that my name, Miss Berry?"

"I don't have any other name to call you by," I goad him, hoping to make him slip and tell me his real name.

I just hear his chuckle again, devoid and morbid, "Good try, Miss Berry but I'm not telling you my name." I pick up my water bottle, my mouth dry, "Do I make you nervous, Miss Berry?"

The bottle stops, midway to my mouth, and I glance around, "Why do you say that?"

"A dry mouth would indicate a nervous disposition, isn't that correct?"

Dial tone.

My cell and the bottle slip from my hands as I rush to the door to make sure it's locked. I methodically circle my apartment, locking the windows one by one, pulling the blinds down and turning off the lights.

But then it occurs to me; what if he's in my apartment? I'm tempted to bolt, head straight for the door and run to Detective Fabray, but I sit behind the kitchen counter and listen with hawk like ears.

Nothing. Just the light breeze rustling the aging trees outside on the sidewalk. The silence petrifies me; it doesn't give me the strength of calm it did weeks ago. The familiar sounds that echo around my apartment are void and I don't sense the familiarity I always feel as I enter my home.

Someone has been here.

Hesitantly, I climb from behind my hiding spot and circle the kitchen counter, hands clutching for any sort of weapon. My hand, shaking, clutches for a knife and I hold it to my chest.

As I circle my apartment, looking for things that may be out of place, I turn on each and every light I own. The apartment illuminates almost instantly, but it does nothing to soothe me; would the next light reveal the face of a murderer?

My heart pounds insanely in my chest, the knife shuddering against it, a cold and sharp edge that grounds me as I head through the apartment. No one in the kitchen, neither in the living room or bathroom. Only the bedroom to go.

The door is shut, as usual, and I hesitate before I swing it open. No one is there, no one is in my apartment, no one is here to hurt me; Mr A is simply trying to scare me off of my wild goose chase.

I hold the knife out as my hand reaches out and twists the door knob. I take one deep breath and hold it as I shove the door open and I stand on the precipice, almost as if I'm looking over the edge of a cliff.

The room is dark, the blinds still pulled up, the bed made just as it was before I left. The monochrome shade of lighting from the street light gives my bedroom a mournful glow and my hand claws at the wall to flick the light switch. I find it, eventually, and when I flick it, nothing happens.

The bulb must have gone, that's all.

My hand trembles as I poke my head into the room, trying to look around for someone that could possibly be hiding. I see nothing, no ghastly silhouettes that set out to haunt me, or the cold steel of a knife that intends to slit my throat. But then my eyes snap to the bed; what if?

I take baby steps into the room, slow and cautious, stopping at the slightest increment of sound. I rip up the comforter, collapsing to the floor to peer beneath the bed. Nothing, just some old pair of shoes that I hadn't thrown out and a suitcase that I used for vacations.

Nothing. There's no one here.

My cell buzzes in the next room and I rush back to the kitchen to retrieve it. The same number. I bring it to my ear, but don't say anything.

"That was fun, right?" The synthesized voice makes me physically ill and I have to clutch at the kitchen counter to hold myself up.

"Why are you doing this to me…?"

He avoids the question entirely, "You have a tiny apartment. I thought being a big fancy lawyer, you'd have a house on the Upper East Side."

"You've been here."

That god awful chuckle, "Nice little collection you have in your bedside drawer. You must be missing Derek to have a stockpile that big. Perhaps I could come over and help?"

I see red.

"Come anywhere near me and I'll cut the fucking thing off."

I cut the call and rip open the back of my phone, ripping out the battery. Turning it off wouldn't have been enough. I place all the parts on the kitchen counter and head into my bedroom, ripping open the bedside drawer he had spoken about.

A collection of sex toys; I could tell that some of them had been moved around, some vibrators that I used more often pushed right to the back, the lube cap opened, leaving it to partially drip on the base of the drawer.

Just as I'm about to shut the drawer, I see tiny scratch marks on the inside of the drawer and I bite my bottom lip. Had he…? I use my thumbnail to pull open the fake bottom of the drawer; a secret compartment that I kept my more 'kinky' toys in.

It's empty, and only a bright yellow sticky note meets my gaze.

"_If I knew you were this kinky, I'd have come to see you sooner."_

I barely make it to the toilet in time to throw up.

* * *

"He did what?"

The next morning I arrived at the precinct and told Detective Fabray the whole story. I could see him silently fume as I continued, although I decided not to tell him about my 'secret drawer'. I didn't need him to know that about me.

"I can't believe this. He's been in your apartment, Rach. We need to get you out of there. I have connections in Boston, I'm moving you up there until this whole thing blows over."

"No!" I sit bolt up in my chair, the fastest I've moved all morning, thanks to my lack of sleep. "I'm not running away from this. I won't go up to Boston and hide while the people who killed Derek run around free."

"They're free now, and you're here." Russell sighs, "Look, Rach, let us do our job. We'll keep you informed, we just need to keep you safe."

"I can't. I need to meet with your son. He may have information."

"If he does, I'll tell you. I'm not letting you put yourself out there again, not after all these phone calls. He was in your apartment, for fuck sake, what else do you need to get the hell out of New York?"

"I'm not going."

He seems more pissed than usual at my stubbornness, so I cross my arms over my chest to seal the deal, "I'm staying, and I'm meeting Quentin."

Russell ponders this for a while, before finally giving me an ultimatum, "I'll let you see Quentin, but only if you go up to Boston. That's all you have, no other deals, no other 'oh but pleases'. You take this or you leave it. Your choice."

I'm enraged as I leave the police station.

I take the deal.

* * *

I'm due to leave the day after I've met with Quentin, so as I wait in the factory, I think back to the three small bags that I packed my life into. How much my life had changed over the past month terrified me; I was getting married, planning a family, a bigger home to move into and now I was single, using a mole to get information on the allusive Belluchi family and moving to Boston to escape a deranged freak who called me and broke into my home.

I almost feel like crying, I'm that helpless. I've been thrown into a situation that I don't fully understand and it drives me insane; I want and need to help, but Russell will have none of it. He doesn't want me around, I can tell, but I refuse to be beaten. I may feel helpless now, but eventually, it'll pay off, and on that day, I'll be victorious.

I hear the echoing thud of footsteps coming toward me, and my head snaps up. Quentin, in a maroon fitted polo and black dress pants, heads toward me. He looks incredibly eager, eager enough to make excited.

"Did you find anything?" I ask, whisper quiet.

He nods, then grabs my elbow and pulls me around a dilapidated stack of boxes that stand just a foot away from the wall. It's cosy, enough room for two, and he pulls me in close to whisper to me.

"I heard a few things, just whispers, like you said. Frankie Belluchi had nothing to do with your fiance's death, it came lower down, from an Underboss."

"Underboss?"

"Higher than a Capo, lower than a Dom." I nod and continue to listen, eager to soak up the information, "The Belluchi's have three Underbosses, Tony Moreno, Rick Lucci and Bad Eye Lou."

I would have laughed at the names, but the seriousness on Quentin's face holds me back.

"Another Capo that I know told me that apparently the company your boyfriend worked for had dealings with two of the Underbosses. Now, Frankie doesn't know about this little deal with the company, so it's on the down low. There's been talk that two Underbosses are taking money for their own gain, so I'm thinking that your boyfriend figured out that it wasn't totally legit and threatened to tell Frankie."

"But why would he do that? I thought selling parts to the Belluchi's was illegal anyway? Why would he complain about it?"

Quentin just shrugs, "That's all I heard."

I sigh, at a dead end once more. Two of the Underbosses for the Belluchi's were behind Derek's death, but I had no concrete leads and nothing that would stand up in court in front of a judge and jury. I'd have to find out more.

"Can you find out more?"

"Not until next week."

My eyes narrow, "Why next week?"

"I'm out on work."

I don't ask him to explain what sort of work he was talking about, but it was obviously shady. I take the time to examine him; he looks completely exhausted, almost as if he's on his last tether. Although he looks physically perfect, perfect mix of muscle and fat, hair perfectly waxed, clothes almost pristine, there's something deeper that puts me on edge.

"Are you okay?" I ask, before I can stop myself.

He seems shocked by the question, but nods nonetheless, "I'm fine."

For a second, I think, I haven't even seen him smile yet. I decide to let it go though.

"I have to go up to Boston, your dad's orders."

Quentin seems confused by this, "Why? What's wrong?"

I tell him the whole sordid story; the calls, the breaking into my apartment, how scared I am, and by the end of it, I can tell that I've gotten through to Quentin.

"I'll take you to Boston. I have to go up that way anyway. Do you have the address?" He's already moving before I can answer, but I follow him, almost like a lamb going to slaughter; I'll follow him regardless of what happens. He's my key to finding Derek's killer.

* * *

I invite him up to the apartment, he's worried at first that someone may see him, but I tell him I need help with the bags, and he eventually makes his way up the stairs to my apartment.

Although I had spent five years of my life here, it almost felt foreign. I felt as if I was walking through someone else's apartment, and not my own. The pictures of family and friends were taken down and packed away, precious mementos from a former life. My belongings, jewellery, work files and my laptop, all stowed away for safe keeping.

"You live here?"

"Not anymore…" I mumble, grabbing the heaviest bag and handing it to him, he takes it immediately, and I quietly thank him before grabbing my laptop bag and my gym bag.

I turn to face Quentin, and he's glancing around my bedroom, "It's a shame. It's a nice place."

I nod, "Yeah, my friends never really understood why I stayed here, but it has character. I like it."

"Have you told your family and friends that you're moving?"

"I've told my friends, and my boss."

His eyebrows furrow, "And your family?"

I sigh, softly, and think back to my time growing up with foster parents. Jumping from one family to the next because they didn't want me, or because they had their own children; "I don't have any."

"Oh…" He quietens and mumbles, "Sorry. I can't imagine what that's like."

"Then don't," I smile sadly, "Because it just hurts. Come on." I'm about to leave when he holds me back, "Have you had one last look? You may have missed something."

I stare at him for a moment, and then it dawns on me; the yellow post it note that still lay stuck in my bottom drawer. I hadn't gotten rid of it, refusing to even touch the damn thing, but maybe Quentin would know the handwriting?

"One thing. I need you to see this." He nods and watches me as I pull open my bedside drawer, it's empty, thank God, I don't need him to see that, and pull open the fake bottom. He leans over me, reading the note and I blush to myself. I forgot what was written on it.

"If I knew you were this kinky, I'd have come to see you sooner?" He rips out the post it note and frowns, "What was in this drawer?"

"Things." I say, almost immediately, voice tight and drawn. His eyes slide up to me, and he peruses me for a moment, before they return to the note, "Do you know the handwriting?"

He takes a moment, but much to my dismay, he says he doesn't, "Sorry."

I shrug, "It's fine. It was worth a shot, right?"

"Right." He sounds preoccupied, and his eyes are back on my drawer. Is he that infatuated with the thought of what was in that drawer? I decide to pick up my bags, and call him to follow. It was time to leave.

* * *

He drives me up to Boston and in the trip that almost takes four hours, the conversation ceases up. He's not much of a conversationalist, so I just take to fiddling with my phone or staring out of the window to pass the time. Sometimes, I forget he's even there, and when I look over to him, it panics me to see the familiar maroon color of his shirt, but then I calm. He isn't out to hurt me, he's just doing me a favor.

His jaw clenches whenever I look at him, and I can tell that it makes him uncomfortable. Jaw shaded in a five o'clock shadow, nose angular, eyes narrowed as he glances from the windscreen to the side mirrors, he's quite attractive. He's not the sort of man I would go for, I prefer personality over looks, unlike some women.

He catches me staring again and glances at me quickly, "What?"

I turn my head to the window and glance out, "Nothing."

Would it be so bad if I found him attractive? I'm not dead; I still have wants and needs that need to be accommodated, but why did I feel so terrible about it? Derek had been gone for a month and I was already eyeing up the next slice to pass the time? I felt horrible. I loved him, and now I'm avenging him; he'd want me to move on, right?

Then why can't I?

I'm shook awake gently, and the mixture of mint and coffee attacks my senses, waking me from my slumber. Quentin is close, so incredibly close, crouched down beside me, the passenger door swung open. We'd arrived.

"Come on, lets get you in." I only have the strength to pull myself out of the car, and while I do, he's pulling my bags from the boot and following me close behind to the door. I invite him in, asking if he wants a coffee, but he declines and settles my bags just inside the door. "Sleep."

And he's gone.

* * *

The sound of pounding on the door wakes me, and it takes me adjust to the change of location. No longer were there cream walls, instead replaced with white and red. It's a lovely apartment, old but with a funky modern twist, on the second floor of the available five. If I didn't love my apartment in New York so much, I would have no issue living here.

The pounding continues, three loud bangs in succession before a beat of silence. I climb from my bed, half naked, still wearing my bra and panties from the night before and wrap a robe around me that was left hanging on the back of the door.

I'm yawning as I unlock the door and swing it open. Quentin is stood on the other side, a coffee cup in his hand, "You've only just woken up?"

I lean against the door lazily, "It was a long day yesterday, excuse me for sleeping in."

His only reply is a raised eyebrow before he thrusts the coffee cup in my direction, "Drink up."

I'm hesitant, because I'm pretty damn picky about what sort of coffee I drink, but as I take a sip of the still steaming brew, my eyes widen. "This is my coffee."

He pushes his hands into his pockets, "It is. Because I give it to you."

I know he's playing with me, but I can't shake the worry that sends chills down my spine. How the hell did he know my order? I realize I've asked it out loud when he replies, "You left your cup in my car from yesterday. I guessed that's what you'd want to drink."

"Oh," Now I just feel awful for thinking he was some sort of stalker, "Well, thank you. I appreciate it."

He just nods.

"So uhm," I take a sip of my coffee, "Why are you here?"

"I wanted you to know that I'll be hanging around with Tony Moreno today, so I'll try figure something out for you. I need you to stay indoors, I don't want you snooping around. Alright?"

His words bristle against me, "I'm sorry, since when were you my keeper?"

"Since we're in the same state together. My father told me to keep an eye on you and that's what I'm doing. Stay indoors."

"And if I don't?"

His eyes narrow, but I sense no malice behind them, "You won't leave because I've told you to."

I'm at a loss for words as he walks away and down the stairs, but what confuses me, is that I actually do what he says.

* * *

I'm in the bath when I hear the familiar ringtone of my cellphone. I'm so comfortable I don't bother reaching over to the toilet lid to pick it up, and eventually, the ringing stops. I close my eyes, allowing the hot water to swirl around my body, drifting between alertness and sleepiness.

Then my phone rings again.

I glance over to it, and see the blocked number, and panic. Did Mr A know that I wasn't in New York? Or had he followed me? Was he stood outside my apartment, peering up, hoping to see me come to the window?

My cell rings off again and I wonder that if I just don't pick up, he'll stop, so I reach over with a wet hand and set my phone to silent.

He still continues to ring, however, and over an hour later, I have sixty-seven missed calls and it's beginning to infuriate me. What if someone else tries to contact me? What if I miss a call from Quentin about something important, or Detective Fabray for that matter?

I finally pick up the call when the total reaches to seventy. I hold the cell to my ear, but don't greet the caller, hoping to hear something in the background before he speaks, but it doesn't work, he's already talking.

"You're very hard to contact, Miss Berry."

I don't reply, and my fingers clench tightly around my phone.

"Oh…we're playing the silent treatment, hm? I went back to your apartment, Miss Berry. It looks like you've emptied out the place, including your special little drawer."

I bite down hard on my bottom lip, refusing to curse at him; fucking pervert.

"You took my note, though. You took a part of me with you."

I realized, at that moment, this man was psychotic. What sort of man would believe that taking a simple handwritten line on a post it note was taking a part of him? He was deranged, a lunatic hiding behind a synthesized voice and creepy phone calls in the night.

"Talk to me, Miss Berry. I miss your voice. Where's that spark you once had?"

I try not to even let him hear my breathing, and hold the speaker away from my mouth so he can't hear anything.

"I still have your belongings, you know. Don't you want them back?" A pause, then a chuckle, he knows he's gotten to me. How dare that scum take my belongings, "Who knew you were so kinky, Miss Berry. Handcuffs? Whips? Anal beads? Rope? Do you like to be dominated Miss Berry?"

He's trying to get to me, but I won't allow it. He may hold things that I once kept secret to the world, and to my fiancé, who was never really too impressed with the thought of a Dominant and submissive relationship, but I wouldn't allow him to use it against me.

That god awful chuckle rings against my ear and I have to pull my phone from my ear. Why do I do this to myself? Why do I answer his calls?

"Boston is lovely this time of year, isn't it?"

I drop my phone like a hot stone and it shatters on the floor in a spectacular show. The battery slides against the tiled floor and I clamber out of the bath tub to make sure the front door is locked and bolted.

I'm naked, covered in half dying bubbles and chilled to the bone. But I collapse to the floor and just weep.

Will I ever escape him?

* * *

I wake up when someone pounds on the door. I'm curled up in the fetal position in front of it and I feel the heavy vibration against my back, bringing me back into the waking world.

With a groan, I clamber to my feet and reach to unlock the door, then realize I'm naked. "One minute!" I call as I rush into the bathroom to grab my silk bathrobe. It feels luxurious against my skin, a far better feeling than the rough hard wood floor that I had slept on for… three hours!

I rush to the door, "Who is it?"

"Quentin."

My fingers fumble on the locks, but eventually I unlock them and rip open the door. "Thank God!" I grab the sleeve of his leather jacket and pull him into the apartment, slamming and locking the door behind me.

I press my palms against the door, catching my breath, willing my heart to stop pounding. "What's wrong?" I hear behind me, deep but caring.

"Another call,"

"Where's your phone?" I point toward the bathroom and he disappears for a few seconds before returning with the shattered pieces of my phone, "Why is it in pieces?"

"He freaked me out…I dropped it."

He nods and flips it over in his hand, "Was there a number?"

"No, it was blocked. It always is," I watch him pull out the sim card from the shattered phone and put it into his, "He knows I'm here."

Quentin's eyes flick up, "In this apartment or in Boston?"

"Boston," He flicks through the screens on his phone, but I can't really tell what he's doing.

"Why did he freak you out?" He holds his phone to his ear and looks at me.

"He was being…" I sigh, "Perverted."

It doesn't seem to phase Quentin, but he doesn't reply, instead, listening to the other end of the call. "Nothing…" He grunts, hanging up and throwing my sim card onto the coffee table.

"What were you doing?"

"I have an app on my phone that figures out the area code of where the blocked call came from, but he's hidden himself well." He shrugs, "I can't do much else."

I sigh; another dead end, yet again. He looks annoyed too, eyebrows furrowed as if he's trying to solve some difficult question that I'm not quite privy to.

Suddenly I feel rather bare as I glances at me, and I tighten my robe around my body. "I didn't go out today, so I didn't bring this on myself."

"I know you didn't go out," He heads into the kitchen, switching on the coffee maker; he seems to know what I want and when I want it.

"And how do you know that?" I ask, following him in. He walks around the kitchen with practiced ease, although he has to search for the mugs and sugar.

"Easy," He doesn't look at me as he speaks, but pours two cups of coffee for us, "I told you not to and you obeyed."

Obeyed? I'm playing with fire, but I can't help but ask, "And how did you know I would?"

His shoulders tense beneath his jacket as he shrugs, "Just a guess."

He's lying, I can tell, he knows something about me. Am I that easy to see through? Am I that easy to figure out? I like to think I have an air of mystery about me, but it seems that's not the case when Quentin Fabray is concerned.

Quentin hands me a mug of coffee, wisps of steam circling the rim and drifting into the air conditioned air. I sip; perfect, once more. I watch him as he creates his own drink, a mixture of too much cream and more than enough sugar. He must have a sweet tooth.

"So," He says, turning to face me and leaning against the kitchen counter, "What did this guy say exactly?"

"He was just," I shrug with a sigh, "Being perverted, talking about stuff that's personal to me."

"It must freak you out," I glance at him over my mug, "You know, that he knows all this stuff about you."

"Yes, it does, but I think the fact he has things that belong to me creep me out even more. I don't even want to think about what he's doing with them."

He seems to ponder for a moment, his eyebrows furrowing, before he asks his next question, "What did he take?"

I'm at a loss if I should tell him or not. I don't want to because it's honestly none of his business and I don't really want him to know what I get up to in the privacy of my own bedroom, but then again, perhaps he could shed some light on who could be like that within the family. Maybe he's seen someone who looks much too smug, or maybe heard whispers of a guy talking about sex toys.

It's a long shot.

I blush as I respond to him, "Sex toys."

What shocks me, however, is that it doesn't even seem to phase him. He just nods and goes back to thinking, drinking his coffee in complete silence, only the hum of the air conditioner filling the air between us.

"Now I'm embarrassed," I say through a sigh, settling my coffee on the counter.

"You shouldn't be," I quickly glance at him, to see his expression as he says it. He honestly doesn't seem bothered, but I'm completely on edge with embarrassment. It's not everyday I tell a man I barely know what I get up to in the bedroom. "Really. You're a woman, it's natural."

"I know that," I groan, "But…some of the toys were…"

He seems to lean forward as I drift off from my sentence, "Yes?"

"Well, they were…not entirely vanilla?"

It takes a while, but eventually it dawns on him, and even then, his face doesn't really betray anything that he may be thinking. He just stands there, one ankle over the other, slowly sipping his coffee.

"Again, natural."

I'm irked at the rather blasé reply; do I want him to say something? Do I want him to show me a reaction? I have no idea. But the way my heart thumps in my chest makes me believe that this is a sexual attraction, although I barely know the man.

He's handsome, and that's all. He's cold and aloof and he's not the man I would fall for, far from it. I prefer gentlemen, with a sense of humour and a love for family. Quentin, he's far from that.

It's a sexual attraction, pure and simple. I was a living and breathing woman, I had needs. Right now, the thought of a relationship made me want to jump headfirst out of a window; I wasn't ready, not so early after Derek's death.

But would pure, meaningless sex ruin that?

"Well," He clears his throat and then downs the rest of his coffee, "I have to go. Remember, keep the doors locked and don't answer your phone to a blocked number."

I just nod as he passes me, but he stops and grabs my elbow, steady but not too strong a grip, "Only open the door to me. I'll knock five times. Do you understand?"

His voice changes somehow, and I can't help but nod in agreement. I watch him leave, and I'm sure I see the hint of a smirk on his face as he walks through the door.

* * *

Detective Fabray calls the day after, just checking up on me. He sounds flustered, and I hear the shuffle of papers on the other side of the phone.

"Busy?" I ask, flipping over an omlette in the pan. I hadn't eaten the night before, I'd been much too tired and just passed out on my bed. Now I was feeling the hunger of a hundred men, and nothing was going to hold me back from eating today. Not even calls from a blocked number.

"You have no idea," He sighs, "I haven't heard from Quentin. Has he been checking up on you like I asked?"

"Yes," I place the omelette on my plate and switch off the stove, "I appreciate you asking him, it's nice to know that I have someone close by that I can depend on."

"I thought you'd appreciate it. Look, I have to go, I have a lead to catch up on. I'll call in a few days with an update."

"Thank you, Detective."

"Call me Russell, please." I hear him grunt as he stands from his chair, "I'll call you."

* * *

There's five loud knocks at my door later that night and something inside me feels giddy as I rush to the door and unlock it. Quentin stands on the other side, surprisingly in jeans and a long sleeved shirt. He looks exhausted, so I don't hesitate to invite him in for a drink.

"You look shattered. Busy day?"

He hums noncommittally as I make him a coffee, and the silence between us is palpable. He thanks me quietly when I hand him his drink, but he makes no move to make any sort of conversation.

"So," I say, when the silence becomes a little uncomfortable, "Did you find anything out?"

He nods, "Just some small talk. I have a feeling that Tony, the Capo I'm hanging around with here, had something to do with Derek's death. He received a large shipment from New York last night, mostly car parts, some merchandise that he can push up to Canada."

"Did you ask him about the shipment?"

"No more than I should have. Remember, I have other reasons to investigate the Belluchi's, I can't arouse suspicion. He just told me that it was the pay off from a deal, then dropped the subject."

"A deal? Derek made a deal with them."

He seems interested now and rests his coffee mug on the kitchen counter top. He comes toward me, slowly, but I don't back away, "What deal?"

"I have no idea. The guy who has been calling me told me that Derek made deals with the Belluchi's and he was the fall guy when things went a little sour."

"So they killed Derek to eliminate the threat and took the merchandise anyway. Tony was saying something about the cops getting close to their Import/Export ring."

"They killed him because they thought he would talk?"

Quentin shrugs, "I wouldn't be surprised; they've done worse for less. The Belluchi's will do anything to make sure that a partner won't squeal, even if they have to kill them to do it. Derek was just out of his depth."

I feel like crying; why would he make deals with the mafia? The man I knew, the man I loved, hated criminals. He'd sit in front of the TV every night and complain about 'what the world was coming to' when another crime shook New York. There must have been another reason behind the deals, because I knew Derek wouldn't make them without being forced.

"Hey," Quentin's fingertips brush against my cheek, and only then I realize that I'm crying. I feel so completely helpless; I need answers, but they seem to allude me. I have more questions with each visit from Detective Fabray and his son that they consume me. "Are you okay?"

I sigh shakily, wiping my tears away with the palms of my hands, "Just stressed, that's all. I wish I had all the answers."

Quentin nods, "I wish I could give them to you. I don't like seeing you like this."

Shockingly, I manage a smile, even if it is a little forced. Quentin steps closer to me though, and I feel myself begin to shut off. I'm uncomfortable, having him so close all of a sudden, "What are you doing?"

He seems shocked at the question, "I just assumed…"

"Then don't." I snap, pushing past him. I make a wide berth, careful not to be anywhere around him, and end up in the living room, curling up on the couch. I assume he'll just leave, like he usually does, but he shocks me once more by sitting down on the recliner opposite me.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable."

I just shrug my shoulders, non committal, I don't really feel like talking.

"Rachel, I'm sorry."

He repeats himself and for some reason, his voice begins to grate on me, "Look, it's fine. It's a mistake. No big deal."

"I guess being around guys for the past two years has really made me have the attitude of a sixteen year old boy."

I roll my eyes, "I guess. We all have needs."

"Some more than others."

My mouth drops; I knew I shouldn't have told him about my toys. I'm about to berate him, but my cell buzzes violently on the coffee table and I sigh as I glance at the ID. Blocked number, once again.

"Should I answer it?"

Quentin scratches at the stubble on his chin and nods, "Try get him to open up. Anything will help to figuring this guy out."

I nod, and for once, don't hesitate as I answer the call. Although Quentin made a wrong move, he sits there, stable and strong, and I know I can lean on him during Mr A's next perverted call. He wouldn't scare me this time.

"Yes?"

"Miss Berry."

"Yes."

"Ah, it's such a joy to hear your voice."

"What do you want? I'm not really in the mood to make small talk."

Quentin shakes his head vigorously and grabs the notepad and pen that sits on the small table beside him. He scribbles furiously and then swipes the paper in my direction.

_Be kind. He'll open up._

I feel like groaning, but I hold it back, "What did you call me about?"

"That's better. I don't like it when you're mood, Miss Berry. It's very unbecoming of a beauty such as yourself."

I almost feel sick to my stomach, but I just keep my eyes on Quentin and memorize his features, logging them away one by one, it gives me something new to think about, instead of the perverted synthesised voice of the sicko on the other side of the call.

"Thanks, I guess…" I watch as Quentin gets up quietly and settles beside me, making sure that he's as close to the phone as he can. I assume he's trying to differentiate the voice, but I get a kick of him wanting to be close to me. It worries me, how I snap from hot to cold with him. Perhaps I just like things on my terms?

"You haven't left your apartment, Miss Berry. I miss looking at you."

"You're nearby?"

I see Quentin frown from the corner of my eye, "I'm close. How about you come to the window?"

I turn and look at Quentin, who seems torn between letting me go and not. Would I be giving this guy the power if I did what he said?

"Why do you want me to come to the window?"

"I like to see you. How about you make me a very happy man and come to the window topless?"

I feel Quentin's hand slap on my thigh and his fingers clench down. I feel the twinge of pain, but it grounds me, and for some reason, I rush of pleasure washes over my body at the same time. It's a perfect combination that has me crossing my legs. Somehow, I think he knows the effect he's had on me.

"I won't do that. I'm not a whore."

"Yet you'll let that Capo into your house every night?"

Quentin stiffens beside me and I worry; if this guy works for the Belluchi's, which I'm almost certain of, will he tell the family about Quentin's meetings with me?

"I don't see the issue with that." I hold my chin eye, thinking he can see me. He won't throw me for a loop. I'm in control, for once.

"Is he your lover?"

He sounds annoyed.

I feel Quentin shift closer.

"Maybe. Why do you want to know?"

"Does he fuck you?" He asks me nice and slowly, as if I'm a child and I feel myself bristle. I lie through my teeth, knowing I'll piss him off.

"He does."

"What does he do?"

"I don't think that's any of your business."

"Tell me, or I'll send a little message to Tony Moreno that his Capo friend isn't really as straight as he once thought."

I see Quentin nod and I sigh, "I haven't seen him for a while. He comes and sees me every night and he fucks me until I pass out." I'm getting carried away, but he's made me angry, and he wanted to know didn't he? I pause, listening to his heavy breathing on the other side, "I can barely walk the next morning."

There's no reply, and only then, do I feel how close Quentin has gotten. He's staring right at me and I can't help but look right back. It's just sex, right?

"Does that answer your question?"

"I know you're lying. He doesn't stay long enough."

"Then I'll make sure he doesn't leave tonight," I reply, goading him, "Was that all?"

"Let's see if you're telling the truth this time."

All I'm met with is a dial tone before I can reply and I groan as I throw my cell onto the coffee table. "Did you know the voice?" I ask, turning back to Quentin, who's breathing increasingly more heavier than before. He looks flushed and completely on edge, and I'm half tempted to glance down at his crotch to see if he's tented.

After years with Derek, I'd forgotten how to be sexy, how to turn a man on. I knew Derek's likes and tastes, so I didn't have to work very hard, but I don't know Quentin, and I'm sure his tastes differ completely to my ex's.

"Quinn?"

"I didn't know the voice," His voice sounds drawn and rough, and it sends a jolt straight through me. "But I can't say I was really paying attention." His grey eyes dance down to my lips and I lick them instinctively, my mouth suddenly feeling dry.

"Oh…?" I ask, voice hitching, nervous.

"Mhm," I realize his hand is still on my thigh when his fingers begin to flex against my flesh. I'm wearing skin tight jeans and I feel every movement of his hand. It's barely there, but I feel it, his thumb dragging ever so slowly against me, torturing me.

"What had you distracted?" I almost feel like a whore, putting myself out there like this, but I haven't been touched in so long, and sometimes that's all you need. Sometimes you just need to have someone lean over you and make you feel like a woman, to touch you and pleasure you.

I want his hands on me.

"I think you know," He's lips are barely an inch from me now, the tip of his nose bumping against mine, urging me to tilt my head. I do it without question, and his lips are upon mine. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to enjoy it. His lips are rougher than Derek's, so is his touch; his hand grips tightly at my thigh, nails digging through the material of my jeans.

This isn't cheating, I know that, but why can I shake the feeling that I'm turning my back on his memory? I moan against Quinn's mouth when I feel his tongue brush along my lower lip, teasing me into opening my mouth. As soon as I feel his tongue against mine, I feel the rush of heat between my legs.

I'm hypersensitive, I can feel every gentle touch of his hands and lips, every breath of his against me, the way his stubble grates against my cheeks and chin. Everything comes together so perfectly and I feel something inside my snap.

He grabs me by the back of my thighs, after some manoeuvring, and pulls me up onto his lap. I'm barely hovering over him, and I rest my hands on his shoulders, stabilizing myself, stopping myself from dropping down right now and riding him for all I'm worth.

"I want you," I hear him groan as he attacks my neck, kissing, sucking and licking. All I can do is tip my head back and receive the touch. I'm amazed by how well he works me, how easily he finds my jugular and strokes it with his tongue. It sends jolts through me and I don't want it to end.

But then he bites down and I yelp.

He pulls back almost instantly and grounds me from jumping off of his lap with his hands on my hips. "Sorry, I assumed you were into that."

"I just…" Derek and I had never really experimented with the pain side in the bedroom. He never really understood why people hurt each other in bed or how in the world it could bring them pleasure, so our sex was usually pretty vanilla with a mixture of sexual positions, but it was something I had always thought about.

I always wondered what it would be like to be pinned down and fucked until I couldn't take it anymore. I always wondered what it would be like to wake up in the morning covered in scratches and bruises, or barely be able to walk. I wanted explosive sex, and looking into Quentin's eyes, pupil's bloodshot and overcome with lust, I knew I could have that with him.

"I just wasn't expecting it," I sigh, almost moaning as the light sting of his bite continues to ring close to my ear. But then I smirk, leaning forward and brushing my lips against his, "And what have I told you about not assuming?"

He smirks straight back, and another jolt goes through my body. I realize I love to tease him, but if I think this is going to go how I think it will, I know I'll come to regret it.

"I'm in control here," He replies, voice strong and steady, "Let yourself go and let me use you."

I shudder against him at his words and wrap my arms around his neck when he goes in for another bite. I fight back a cry when he bites back down on the same spot, eager to make me feel the pain which I so desperately crave. His teeth make the perfect indent against my skin and I urge for more. I move my neck, silently telling him to bite elsewhere, but he doesn't comply.

He continues with the same spot, driving me slowly insane and I fight back the urge to cry out and order him to bite elsewhere. He's in control here; he wants me to be the submissive, he wants me to take what he gives to me and be thankful for it.

He continues the torture for several minutes, until I feel the skin sting and sore, and I'm close to shoving him away when he suddenly pulls back and begins to drop kisses across my chest, unbuttoning my blouse as he does it.

He covers each uncovered patch of skin with rough kisses, a clash of tongue and teeth rattling me from the inside. Eventually, my blouse is completely undone and he rips it from me before I have the chance to do so.

I sit before him, in a black lace bra, and contemplate teasing him, but wouldn't the punishment be worse? I wonder as he kisses the gentle swell of my breasts, and then realize that, perhaps, I want the punishment to be worse. I may be new at it, but I want it rough.

My hand grabs the back of his hair and rips his head away from me. He stares up at me, eyes wide, lips parted as he gathers his breath. I can tell what he's thinking; you're playing a dangerous game. But when I rip his head back against the couch and latch my teeth around his Adam's apple, I can barely bring myself to care.

He allows me to tease him for only moments before he's picking me up and carrying me into the bedroom. My legs wrapped around his waist, arms around his neck, he watches my breasts heave with each and every breath. It feels so good to be looked at, like I'm the only woman he could ever possibly want.

It makes me feel powerful, but as he throws me onto the bed and rips his shirt over his head, I know I'm far from powerful. His body, though lean, isn't overly muscular and I appreciate that. I don't want the sort of guy that looks like a statue, I want a guy that feels good against me, not like priceless marble.

He climbs on the bed and softly kisses me, so softly, that I'm at a loss for a moment. I want to ask what brought it on, but then he's kissing down my body, rough, teeth pinching the skin of my breasts, stubble burning my already sensitive skin, and when he reaches my belly button, I feel myself tense involuntarily.

"Calm down," He mumbles against the gentle swell of my stomach.

"And if I don't?" I gasp as I feel his teeth against my hipbone. It ground me back to the situation; he's in control, not I.

"Then I'll walk out and leave you all alone," He pulls away from me and looks up as his hand drifts across the button of my jeans, "I'm sure that'd be a pain, to be left horny and wanting?"

He's right, but I refuse to admit it, so I push my cheek into the pillow and squeeze my eyes shut. I feel his hand, strong against my jaw, pull me to face him, "Look at me."

I do, and I can tell he isn't angry. If anything, he likes me when I misbehave.

"You do as I say and I pleasure you. You misbehave, I punish you. Do you understand?"

He's so clear cut and I have no issue nodding in agreement. I know I've made the right move, because he leans down and softly kisses my forehead and whispers, "Good girl." Before moving down to rip my jeans away from me.

In my underwear, I feel almost as if I'm naked. He stares at my body, and I worry he doesn't find me attractive. Am I a little overweight for him? Do I not have enough curves? But then he smirks up at me and leans between my legs to kiss me over my panties.

I feel his lips on me and I gasp; I'm so wet, and the feeling of his lips alone is enough to send me over the edge. He purposely misses my clit, adamant to tease me before he tastes me.

"Hold your hands over your head and don't move them," He says it as my hands drift towards his hair, eager to grab him and pull him into me. "If you move them, I'll stop." He looks up at me, but doesn't move, and doesn't touch me until my hands are over my head, hands clasped around my wrists.

How I wish I had handcuffs.

"Good,"

He doesn't call me a good girl and it smarts me, but I have little time to wonder about it, because he's softly licking me through my panties. His tongue, hot against me, sends pleasure through me that I've never felt before. He works me so perfectly, teases me just to the right moment, and holds me on the point of no return.

I'm whimpering to myself, unable to form a sentence or a plea for him to fuck me. The torture lasts for long agonizing minutes, until I feel my panties being pulled down. I glance down at him and watch him, mouth wet, face flustered and red as he pulls my panties from me.

"It'll be worth it," I almost feel as if he's trying to calm himself down, trying to remind himself that all the teasing will be worth it. He'll make me come harder if he teases me, I know it. We both do.

He pulls my legs over his shoulders and I do everything I can to accommodate him without moving my hands. The first brush of his tongue against me is quick, almost fleeting, but I feel every bit of it. Hot, wet and flush against me, it makes me instinctively arch my back.

I can almost hear him chuckling over the roaring in my ears, but I don't let it annoy me. I roll with it, and roll my hips into every stroke of his tongue against me. It takes him a few seconds to find my sweet spot, just above my clit, and he knows he's hit it when I cry out his name sharply.

His attention is drawn to that one spot and he fucks me with his tongue to the point that I'm riding his face with complete abandon. I don't care how slutty I look, my legs spread for a man I barely know, but the thrill is something that I can ignore. He wants me, he wants to taste me, he wants me to come for him. It's a power I never thought I could hold and I revel in it.

The precipice is coming and I'm reaching it faster than I ever have before. I fight with myself not to bring my arms down and push his face into me, it's so fucking hard, completely agonizing, and I know he can tell I'm fighting with myself because my hips lose their rhythm and I whine even louder.

As I feel my clit tingle, my pussy clench, I scream and my hands reach down for his hair, pulling him into me, grinding myself against his nose, lips and chin. The rough scratch of his stubble is enough to throw me completely over the edge and my back arches, clean off the bed, eyes squeezed shut, mouth wide as I scream his name in a whirlwind of pleasure.

"Fuck, Quinn!"

My vice grip on his hair eventually slackens and I collapse to the bed, a sweaty mess, still shaking. I hear his heavy breathing over my own, and as the pleasure induced haze lifts from me, I realize that I broke his rule.

"You naughty girl," I hear from below me and I stiffen. Immediately I plead with him, apologizing to him, beg him not to punish me. But as he orders me onto my hands and knees, I can't help but look forward to his hand against my ass. "You'll count to ten for being disobedient, do you understand?"

I try an acknowledge him, but all I can do is nod, my voice lost against the lust.

"Do you understand?"

I feel one sharp sting against my ass and I cry out, my hands gripping the pillows for dear life as the sting erupts across my ass, "I understand."

"Good. Now count to ten."

I count each and every slap, fast and harsh against my ass, and I linger to enjoy the sharp sting before another is bestowed upon me. I'm tempted to lose count, just so he'll spank me some more, but by the time I formulate my plan, I'm screaming out the number ten, my forehead pressed against my pillow, chest to the bed.

"F-fuck…" I whisper, feeling the sharp heat from my ass completely consume me. I take the time to gather my breath, but I hear the telltale sound of a zip being pulled down and my neck snaps to the side just in time to see him pull down his jeans and boxers to his knees.

His cock, hard and ready for me, stands at attention and all I want to do is put it in my mouth. The tip, wet with pre-come, beckons to be licked clean and he catches me licking my lips.

"You can suck me after I fuck you."

All I can do is nod, and as he adjusts himself behind me, and I feel his cock slide through my soaked pussy, I realize, he's not wearing a condom.

And a thrill runs through me.

He slams deep inside me, hands gripped at my hips, slamming me back against him. There's no gentleness about it; he's been completely unravelled from his cool and aloof façade, now he shows his true colors.

He grunts as he fucks me, whispering my name from time to time when he pushes in particularly deep. He fucks me so thoroughly, and the slam of his hips against my ass is enough to give me the jolt of pain that I need to come. He's planned everything to perfectly, and it's proven when he sits back on his heels, pulls me with him and orders me to ride him as he fucks my clit with his fingers.

I'm at his mercy and I obey his command, my hands reaching behind me, grabbing the back of his hair, pulling him in to kiss me as he takes me from behind. His fingers swipe furiously at my clit and he knows how good he's making me feel as I moan into his mouth, tongues swiping against one another for dominance in a lust filled battle.

I make sure to ride from the top of his cock all the way back down to the bottom, I want every inch of him inside me, and I want him to feel the same pleasure that he bestows upon me. As I ride faster, his grunts become louder, as if he's losing control, and I work with it.

Adjusting myself on his lap, I turn to face him; I want to see him as he comes inside me. I continue to ride, slowly at first, until I speed up. Every few minutes, I speed my thrusts, pounding my whole body down onto him to feel him jolt against me.

He stares at me as I do it and I feel special, but then it dawns on me; this is just sex. I wrap my arms tightly around his neck and pull him against me; I can't see his eyes, I can't watch him as he comes inside me, I can't have that intimacy with him.

Quentin doesn't complain, instead, he runs his hands down my body and pounds into me, bringing himself closer to his very own precipice. I'm close to coming, and I'm panting for him to fuck me harder and faster, to come inside me and fill me up, and I can tell I'm destroying his will power bit by bit when he groans my name against my breasts.

He sucks and bites at my nipples, a way of silently warning me not to turn him on too much. He doesn't want to come just yet, but I do. I beg him, like a dog would his owner for a treat.

"Oh God, please, let me come."

The tender bites against my nipples become sharper and I gasp, arching my chest into his mouth, eager for more. "Please, please, please," I whimper, ripping at his hair, eager for him to let me.

The routine continues for almost fifteen minutes, and in that time, he draws me toward orgasm and pulls me back only moments before I come. I know what he's doing; edging is a way of making an even stronger orgasm, and I know I'll appreciate it, but the agony of being pulled back from such an amazing feeling almost leaves tears in my eyes.

"Come for me," I eventually hear him grunt against my chest, my breasts marred in bite marks and red from the attention. I know he can't take it anymore, he's close too, and as I come, my pussy tensing around his cock, I feel his calm shatter.

Still coming, he throws me onto my back and slams into me, hard and fast. He brings me into another orgasm, and another, and then another, and on my forth consecutive climax, he cries out my name and I feel his warmth explode inside me.

I cling to him, holding him close, burying his face in my neck as I feel his cock tense and shudder inside me. I enjoy every fleeting second of it, until he pulls from me and kneels up beside me.

"Suck my cock."

I'm exhausted, but I can't turn myself away from the opportunity of tasting him. I take his shaft into my hand and suck his tip slowly, working my hand up and down slowly, twisting ever so slightly on alternate slow. It's enough to drive him crazy, very very slowly. My tongue swirls around his tip, tasting a mixture of both of us, and I've never tasted something so delicious.

I get greedy, quickly, and push him further into my mouth, eager to have his cock hit the back of my throat. My free hand teases his balls, pulling them ever so gently to make him tense and as I bob my head up and down on him, speeding up with every passing minute, I feel his fingers thread through my hair, pulling my further onto his cock.

He wants me to gag, I'm sure of it, and with one particular thrust of his hips against my mouth, I gag and I feel his balls tense in my hand. I know he's close, but I don't want him to come just yet. I edge him, just as he edged me. He hates being teased, and he tries to drive me on to make him come, but I refuse.

I suck him and tease him, my saliva drenching his cock, the sucking sound echoing in the room amongst his moans, and I'm sure I'm close to coming myself. I pull my hand away from his balls and begin to rub my clit. I'm over sensitive, and for a second it hurts, but I become used to the feeling and begin to fuck my clit vigorously. I want and need to come, and he knows it.

He looks down at me and slaps my hand away and I whine, but he replaces my hand with his and I moan loudly against his cock, the vibration sending a thrill through his body.

His fingers fuck me, haphazard and violent, but I don't complain. He fucks me in his own way and my pussy aches to come for him once more. He grunts out my name, quiet and low, "Gonna come…"

I pull him from my mouth and open my mouth wide, stroking his cock hard and fast. Within moments, he's ripping at my hair, moaning my name, and with one last thrust into my hand, he's coming into my mouth, and I come right along with him.

I taste him, salty on my tongue, and swallow him right now. He pants heavily, exhausted, and my last orgasm of the night has my eyes drooping, body aching, thoroughly fucked, and ready to sleep.

Quentin collapses beside me and pulls me into his arms. As I drift off into my own personal unconsciousness, I feel his lips press against my forehead once more, and I don't worry that the arms that wrap around me in the night and keep me safe are more muscular than the ones over a month ago.

* * *

I wake alone, and my hand drifts across the used space beside me, trying to feel the heat of the body that had once slept there. The bed is stone cold; Quinn had left hours ago. I was exhausted and slept through him leaving in the dead of night.

For a second, I think about calling him, but I realize that he never gave me his number, and that calling him while he was working wouldn't be a particularly good move, so instead, I decide that breakfast and a long hot shower is in order.

As I climb out of bed, I feel the pain of the night antics, but it doesn't pain me so much that I'm doubled over. It's just a gentle sore that makes me smile as I pass from one room to the other and pour myself a bowl of cereal. As I grab the milk, I see a note, pinned to the fridge door with a magnet and pull it free.

_Had to go to work. I'll see you later tonight. Don't wear any underwear._

I smirk to myself and I feel like squealing, almost as if I'm a little girl again. I fold the note and throw it onto the kitchen counter, then dive into my cereal. Maybe things are beginning to look up.

I get another call when I get out of the shower. I'd spent almost an hour in the damn thing, just enjoying the way the hot water relaxed and massaged my muscles. I spent most of it fantasizing about Quinn being in the shower with me, but I shook it off when my mood began to drop.

It was just sex, I kept saying to myself. I'm sure Quinn thought the same, even though we hadn't spoken about it in depth. But what if it wasn't? What if those gentle kisses to my forehead were promises of something more? Or the way his arms wrapped around me in the night were a way of protecting me from what was happening around me.

I left the shower and dried off when the thoughts became too much to bare

And then my phone rang.

A blocked number, and I don't even hesitate to pick it up, even when I know it's the pervert.

"Yes?"

"Miss Berry."

"Mr A, a pleasure to hear from you." I realize I'm much too cocky for my own good, but I can't bring myself to care. He can't touch me, not when I have a locked door before me, a police detective and an undercover cop at my beck and call.

"Hmm…you sound a lot more chipper than yesterday."

"Perhaps I do."

His chuckle echoes against my ear, but I don't cringe, "So…the Capo made you feel all better, huh?"

"It's not really any of your business, is it?"

"Perhaps not," A beat of silence, "I enjoyed the show."

My smart ass smirk drops and I mumble, "What?" At his statement.

"I thought you weren't going to flash me, Miss Berry. I must say, I was quite surprised when I saw the view. Tell me, Miss Berry, did you enjoy having him fucking your cunt? I know it's been a while."

My hand clenches around the sink and I use it to keep myself steady. "You were watching?"

"I told you I would. You know, I'm surprised at you. I never knew you'd be the sort of woman that liked it bareback. No condom, Miss Berry? Dirty girl."

I feel like throwing up.

"You also suck cock like a champion, Miss Berry. How about I come around and you can suck mine."

"I'll bite it off you fucking psycho. Stop calling me and stop interfering with my life."

"Hmmm, I love it when your angry, Miss Berry. Perhaps I will give you a little visit."

The dial tone echoes around me like a funeral dirge and I panic almost instantly. I quickly dial the number for Detective Fabray and feel myself hyperventilating when he doesn't pick it up straight away.

"Detective Fabray," He sounds flustered, yet again and I wonder how much work one man could possibly have.

"Russell, it was Mr A, he called me again, he's coming to get me."

"Whoa…whoa, wait up Rach. What did he say exactly?"

I tell him and he hums quietly to himself, "It's probably an empty threat, don't worry about it. Just keep your door locked and only answer the door if Quentin comes knocking, alright?"

His call does nothing to settle me.

* * *

Two hours later, I'm sat in the living room, staring at the TV. I'm not really paying attention, my mind drifts from thinking about Quentin, to Mr A, who could be nearby. I've closed the curtains in every room of the house. I know he can't see me, but I can't shake the feeling that he still can.

There's a knock at my door, two solid knocks, and I stare at the door, clutching to the back of my couch. That's not Quinn's knock and I feel my heart pound in my chest. He's here. He followed through with his threat.

"Go away!" I scream, already reaching for my cell to call the police. "I'll call the cops!"

Two loud knocks again and my fingers shake as I unlock my phone. "I'm calling them!"

Another two knocks and I dial 911.

* * *

By the time the officers get here, two burly men that look like they couldn't even run down a hallway, the mystery knocker is gone. "Do you know who it was, ma'am? Did you look at him?"

"The door was locked. I've been getting crank calls from him for almost a month. He threatened to come to my home and he did."

"I'm afraid we can't do anything, ma'am. You didn't see him and his number is blocked. We can't track him."

I feel like screaming, but as Quentin runs into the room and takes me into his arms and asks, "Are you okay?" I feel better.

* * *

"He came to the door?" He asks once the cops have gone and we've settled on the couch with two beers. I've downed half of mine by the time he even reaches for his, but the tangy alcohol eases me somewhat.

"Yeah, he knocked twice. I called out to him but he didn't reply." I feel completely helpless and I feel tears prick at my eyes, "I can't do this anymore, it's driving me insane. I feel like I'm walking on eggshells all the time and I can't stand it."

Quentin nods, "I know, but we're gonna get this guy, alright?"

"How? We have no idea who he is!"

"We can't track his calls…but…if he came back, maybe we could set a trap for him."

I frown, "Like what?"

"Make him come again, and I'll be waiting for him. I'll arrest him and take him in."

"But…" I shake my head, "No, you can't, your cover will be blown."

"It would take my whole life to learn everything I need to about the Belluchi's. I have enough evidence to condemn the Dom and two of his Underbosses to jail, that's good enough for me."

"They'll come for you."

He smirks softly, "Let them."

* * *

His hand skims down my stomach and into my sweatpants. I don't feel sexy in the slightest, but Quentin Fabray has the habit of making me hungry for sex at any given moment. We stand before the bed, kissing softly, his hand running down between my legs, feeling the moisture that gathers at my entrance.

He hums softly, "Such a good girl,"

I melt, and pull him into me, eager for him to fuck my worries away.

And he does.

* * *

When I wake up the next morning, Quentin is still in bed with me. He's laying on his back, arm over his head, gently snoring. Snoring generally annoyed me, especially when Derek did it, but Quentin's doesn't. It's soft, and somehow rings like a melody in my ears. It calms me.

I cuddle closer to him, and wrap my leg around him. I feel his cock stiffen against me and I smirk to myself. Even in his sleep, he's horny. Quietly, and trying not to wake him, I climb on top of him and rest my hands on his chest.

He slides so easily inside me, and he stretches me so perfectly. I grind against him slowly, and watch as his eyebrows furrow. He shuffles slightly, but I ground myself with my hands on his chest. I speed up, slowly at first, wanting to wake him up gently.

As his eyes slide open, his blinks a few times to adjust his vision and smirks sleepily, "Excuse me?"

"You're excused," I moan, speeding up, my hips rocking, his cock pushing even deeper into my pussy and hitting that magical spot within me. My breasts bounce and he grabs for them, pinching the nipples, goading me on as I fuck him.

It's a lazy fuck, but it's enough to wake us up. He groans my name quietly as he spills into me and I collapse against his chest, panting softly.

"I should sleep over more often," Quentin laughs to himself, wrapping his arms around me.

I don't say anything.

"It's him," Quinn calls out as he walks into the living room from the kitchen, my cell in his hand, "Want to answer it?"

I look over the back of the couch toward him, seeing him lazily lean against the kitchen counter in only his jeans, and I nod. He throws it to me and I pick it up.

"Yes."

"Why didn't you answer the door?"

"You scared me."

"Why did I scare you?"

"I wasn't expecting you to actually come."

He chuckles and I roll my eyes; that god damn chuckle, "Would you rather I pinky promised with you?"

"Tell me what you want."

"I want you to open the curtains so I can see you."

"You're nearby?" I glance over to Quinn, who moves to the closest window and peeks through a tiny slit in the curtain, "Where?"

"That would be telling, Miss Berry. I'm close by. Open a window."

"I wouldn't know which one."

"Living room."

I nod to Quinn and he nods right back before looking back out the window. He rolls his hand slowly, a sign for me to keep him talking.

"How can you see me? Do you have an apartment up here or something?"

"Why, Miss Berry, are you fishing?"

"I just want to know where you are, is that so bad?"

"It is, if you're going to call the police on me again. That was a bad move, Miss Berry. Luckily they didn't think anything of me running down the sidewalk. Cops these days," I smart at his comment; something isn't right.

"These days?"

"Hmm…" He doesn't even seem to be paying attention, but the soft click of Quinn's fingers bring me back to the room. He's seen something.

"Where are you, Mr A? If you warn me, I won't be worried when you come to the door."

"I'm not stupid, Miss Berry."

I watch as Quinn unlocks the door and runs out; it's the fastest I've ever seen him move, and I know that he's found Mr A. It's only a matter of time. The master of hiding is no longer a master. He's been caught by an undercover cop that knows the Belluchi's inside and out.

"Why are you infatuated with me?"

"Open the window."

I sigh and open the window, but not for him, only to see if I can see Quentin from where I stand. I have no idea what could have made Quentin think he saw Mr A, but I trust him, funnily enough, a stand at the open window.

"There."

"Hmm…beautiful."

I nip at my bottom lip, fighting back the bile, "Like what you see?"

"Oh, I do…" He's panting slowly, and I feel like throwing the curtains back across the window. I know what he's doing, but I just clench my eyes shut and pray that Quinn will make it in time. "So beautiful… You'll be mine."

I turn my head away from the window, "I belong to someone else."

"No, not him. You don't belong to him."

"To who?"

He's panting, dangerously fast, and he sounds as if he's close himself, "Quentin, you're not his."

My heart stops, "How do you know his name?"

"I-," I hear a scuffle on the other side of the line and it drops. I rip open the window to look out further. I don't see anything straight away, but eventually, I catch a glimpse of two men scuffling, one is Quentin and the other is… no…

* * *

"I'm so sorry…" Quentin's hands clench and unclench in an unknown melody and I can't help but sit and stare at him at the Boston Police station as I had for the past twenty minutes. "If I'd have known I would have…" He looks disgusted with himself, and the anger that I had felt for the past hour begins to dissipate. This isn't his fault.

He isn't his father.

"You weren't to know. I didn't know either…" I lean forward and cup my chin in my hands, "I can't believe it was him. I can't believe he was the one behind it all."

"It's called double crossing," A detective walks toward us, hair long and curled, "Unfortunately, it's becoming more and more regular with each passing year. Cops, genuine honest to god cops get enticed by the life style of a criminal and think they can live a double life. Eventually, they get caught."

Quinn doesn't seem too impressed, "My dad was working for the Belluchi's. They knew who I was all along and they didn't do anything. They just strung me along."

The Detective shrugs, "They were probably trying to think of a way to get rid of you and your father at the same time. You're both cops, and regardless of the bargain that your father made with them, it wouldn't stand up down the line."

"You knew him?"

"I worked on the case with him. The major Import/Export ring happened down on the docks here in Boston. If only I knew he was the one helping the Belluchi's keep the ring going."

"Did he…" I swallow the bile down in my throat, "Did he kill my fiancé?"

"My best bet is that Mr Reed realized what was going on and was planning to tell the police about Detective Fabray's subterfuge."

Tears begin to roll down my cheeks; my fiancé wasn't the bad man that I assumed of him. He was standing up for himself, just as he had all his life. He may have been part of a company that dealt with the Belluchi's, but he was still willing to put himself on the line to bring down a dirty cop.

"Thank you," I whisper to the Detective, who just nods and pats me on the shoulder in a comforting gesture.

"Quentin, your father requested to see you."

"That asshole isn't my father," He fumes and I look up at him, "Rachel, I'm so sorry…"

"Don't apologize," I whisper, "It's not your fault."

He doesn't seem to agree with me, so I stand and walk toward him. I only notice then that the Detective has walked away, leaving us to talk amongst ourselves. "This isn't your fault." I repeat, cupping his face in my hands, "You're not your father."

He wraps me up in his arms and I don't want him to let me go.

* * *

I'm back in my lovely apartment in New York. Just stepping into the place was almost like going into a time capsule. Everything was just as I left it, and the familiar air of the place instantly put me at ease.

I felt safe, and as I unpacked my things, I realized that everything was over. Russell Fabray was behind bars, as were the members of the Belluchi family that Quentin had implicated over the past two years.

The only thing that was missing was Derek. My loving fiancé that never wanted to do wrong by the world. He was still in the ground and he wasn't coming back, but I felt a warming presence across my back as I walked into the bedroom. It felt as if he was embracing me, telling me that he was sorry and that he loved me.

Telling me to move on.

Now as I lay in bed, I wonder to myself, was it really time to move on from Derek? But as a familiar pair of arms wrap around me from behind and I'm pulled against a body I had begun to memorize, I realized that yes, perhaps it was time.


End file.
